


justice and fairness

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fuck the Galaxy Garrison, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Pre-Kerberos Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: The Garrison has their ways of dealing with problem cadets. Shiro learns this.
Relationships: (can be read as gen if you like) - Relationship, Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 105





	justice and fairness

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of my Twitter thread, with some adjustments, and inspired by the aftermath of James and Keith's fight. Well--there wasn't much of one; Keith punched James and Iverson got involved before things escalated. So why were there bruises on Keith's face while they were sitting in front of the office?

As he helps Keith from his seat, Shiro notices the bruises, beginning to swell. They're purpling, noticeable, decorating both sides of his face and at the corner of his mouth.

"Keith," he says softly.

Keith flinches. "What?" he asks, too sharply.

"You're..." Shiro begins, hand still in Keith's. His mind is racing; he'd seen Iverson drag Keith away before the fight escalated. James hadn't thrown a punch. He himself had taken the shortest route to the office…

But two officers had come with Iverson to "escort" Keith, as if he were a dangerous animal.

A chill zips up his spine, as sharp as electricity. Iverson was there. Iverson was a superior officer. He wouldn't—

Shiro's no stranger to Garrison vigilantism, especially in this environment, where groups formed around certain students and authority was absolute, even in dark corners. Officers were always officers, no matter the time or location. It was ingrained in Shiro to _always_ salute a higher-ranking officer, for fear of a demerit, or to always arrive in dress uniform, even for parties or an private meeting.

But Shiro never had to worry as much as Keith, he realizes, watching Keith duck his head, trying to avoid his gaze.

He wants to storm back into the office, Griffin's presence be damned. He remembers how much he'd apologized for his recruit's behavior, how much he'd pleaded for Keith to be given another chance. It makes him sick. Keith distrusted adults already...how could...

This is not the Garrison he knows. But maybe he hasn't really known them, eternal optimist he is, as Adam often said. He's had obstacles put in his way, but never directly _sabotaged_.

Keith finally speaks. "Don't," he says, sharper. "It's not worth it."

"No." Shiro shakes his head. "What did I tell you? I'm never giving up on you. And you..." He glances towards the office, where James is sitting, hands folded, looking more relieved than chastened.

"Don't," Keith repeats. "You'll make it worse. Don't."

Shiro pauses. "What do you mean?"

At Keith's sudden flush, he puts together another piece of the puzzle. "This isn't the first time, is it?"

Keith's silence is all he needs to say.

Fury builds in him, and he takes several deep breaths; Keith doesn't need to see him angry, or worse, mistake it as anger towards him. (Never him.)

"Come with me," he says softly. Keith's still holding onto his hand, small and hesitant. "I have a first aid kit in my office."

Keith follows without a word, and Shiro ignores the looks they're given. His priority is letting Keith have some space away from—no. He can't go down that route. Keith needs care, attention, kindness, something he clearly won't get here

When they reach the office, Shiro asks Keith to sit, then digs out his first aid kit, which hasn't been used in a while but still—he sighs in relief—serviceable. He comes forward, holding an alcohol pad in his hand, and Keith closes his eyes, leans forward.

Carefully, Shiro rips open the packet and dabs the soft, tissue-like material on one of the bruises. Keith stiffens, but otherwise doesn't move, or make a sound. He does the same to the bruise on the other cheek, wincing at the angry purple-red.

"Did it break anything?" he asks. It's better than the obvious "does it hurt?"

"No," Keith says. "It's just...a surface thing." He shrugs. "It's not that bad. Really."

 _I've had worse_ is implied. Shiro's quiet, dabbing at his chin.

God, he doesn't know what to do.

An impassioned speech, a heartfelt promise—both fall flat on Shiro's tongue. And even if he filed a complaint, he has no proof; he didn't see it happen, after all. They'd just discredit Keith's word—and Keith was right. He'd be worse off than before.

An idea comes to him. It's against the rules, he thinks. But hell, so was…

Shiro puts down the alcohol pad and presses something into Keith's hand. "Here," he says.

Keith stares at it, uncomprehending. "What...?"

"It's a key to my quarters," Shiro says. "I share it, but no one will bother you. If you need a place to rest or somewhere quiet..."

"How do you know if you can trust me?"

"I don't," Shiro admits. "But I want you to trust _me."_

Keith's fingers slowly close around the key.

Shiro decides this: he _will_ keep an eye on Keith, and not in the way his superiors ordered him to. He'll do this so it won't happen again, or at the very least, Keith has a safe harbor.

Keith remembers this silent promise when he finds Shiro, strapped to a table and drugged by the Garrison.

And when everyone is settled in the shack and Shiro wakes, Keith touches the new, metal arm without fear. "You're safe here.”

Shiro puts a hand on Keith's cheek, now sharp-boned and hollow. "I know," he says. "Thank you."


End file.
